


We're Too Old For This

by ScarvesAndJellyBabies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Resolved Sexual Tension, Spin the Bottle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 02:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarvesAndJellyBabies/pseuds/ScarvesAndJellyBabies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. After John lets him know what those years did to him, a party for Sherlock gets underway. A drunken game of Spin-the-bottle ensues and in the aftermath, they come to terms with what everyone has said about them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Without You

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I had a dream about Spin-the-Bottle and this was the result.

Three years.

That's how long it's been.

John was surprised that it's been three years.

Because frankly, it felt like every day just blended into the next, making time just seem like a giant ball rather than a linear concept to him.

He tried living with Harry after it happened because the flat was just an empty shell without him. When he was with Sherlock, he felt so safe. Like he was home. But nonetheless, he decided to move back into the flat. Mrs. Hudson always stopped by for tea every evening so that they could talk about the happenings in their lives and around town. There was the unspoken agreement of not touching on the topic of Sherlock, but that lasted for all of two months. They decided that it was better to reminisce on the good times that they had with him and celebrate his life. But other than Mrs. Hudson, John only briefly talked about Sherlock with others. They didn't know him like he did, as cliché as that sounded. They only saw the high-functioning sociopathic consulting detective, not the 6-year-old genius consulting detective that John adored.

He kept himself busy by sorting through all of Sherlock's things, taking the time to reading his case files, reflecting on the memories in each of them. Eventually, he made his way throughout the flat, cleaning the place up and packing his belongings in boxes. He couldn't bear to get rid of them. It would have felt like getting rid of him as a whole. It was bad enough that he wasn't there, but to dispose of the only things connecting them to each other…he didn't think his heart could take it. He even went through the library of books that Sherlock had, laughing at the various stories involving adventures out at sea. Mycroft was right: He really wanted to be a pirate. But he went through and read all the books, letting his imagination take him to the highest places and away from reality, if only for a moment.

It was about 6 months before John mustered up the courage to go into Sherlock's room. The only other time he was in there was when Sherlock was drugged by The Woman and he had to throw him back onto the bed. As soon as he stepped through the doorway, the tears came. It felt like he was a lingering presence in the room, but John knew it was a lie. He shakily inhaled, the sobs wracking his body as he took in Sherlock's scent. They never hugged or anything, but they were attached at the hip. Sherlock's scent was committed to his memory: Slightly musky and almost of a microbiology lab. It was odd, but it was comforting. He brought his laptop into the room, pulled up his iTunes and hit shuffle. Ben Gibbard's voice faded into the background as John let all of their adventures weave in and out of his mind while he organized Sherlock's belongings. There really wasn't much to be organized since Sherlock had everything in its own section, but he did it anyway because he wanted to know everything about him. He snorted at the sock index and the time that he messed with it, just for fun. The next day, it was back in order. John never touched it again because he learned that to mess with Sherlock's things was like trying to drill into his brain the idea that the solar system existed: trouble.

The room wasn't particularly messy to begin with, but he supposed it was just an excuse to feel enveloped by his best friend. He was never one for frivolous things and his room echoed it. Probably because all of his stuff was in the kitchen anyway. Just a periodic table and a judo certificate adorned his wall. His desk had his laptop, a notepad and a tin can filled with pens and pencils next to it. It was only when it was dinner time that he left the room. The rest of the evening, he went through his closet, noting the purple shirt. He would never admit it out loud, but he always thought Sherlock looked the best in that shirt. In fact, he bet that Sherlock knew because he remembered that he wore that shirt the day that he started showering John with compliments in the cemetery. He debated about sleeping in Sherlock's room for a while and just decided to go with it. The bed was nice and all, the sheets cool against his skin, but it wasn't enough. The only thing that could make it better was if there two people in the bed, instead of one.

**

It took about eight months before John came back to work at the hospital. Sarah understood he needed to be alone with his thoughts the moment she saw it on the news and she received his email. All she said was that he could come back when he was ready. When he finally did, she tried not to show her surprise at his change in demeanor. He was still kind, patient, had a tremendous work ethic, and was warm with his patients. Something was off though. His eyes said volumes of what he wouldn't say out loud. They were empty, as if someone turned off the spark. She never asked him because she already knew the answer. It killed her to see him to continue going about his business, being an emptier version of the man he was before Sherlock entered his life. So she did what she could, be a supportive friend. She was patient with him, just making small talk during breaks. It was around the fall when John started talking more, which led to the routine of getting coffee on Friday afternoons after work in a little hole-in-the-wall café in Brixton. They stayed there until dark, chatting about everything. They came to view each other as siblings, always open with each other. She felt like she had done a good service when she saw him laugh out loud at the comedian at the café one night. There was a sense of unbridled joy radiating from him in that moment, and she wished she could have captured it because this was the John Watson that everyone longed to see. They weren't going to be able to see him for a while, so they had to wait.

**

Lestrade consulted him sometimes on some of the more minor cases, knowing that John was still wary. It was strange calling him up to ask if he would like to help out because there was always that void when he walked onto the scene. He wasn't Sherlock, but Lestrade figured that with him being his best friend, maybe some of that intellectual prowess rubbed off on him. John surprised him by doing a fairly decent job. If Sherlock were there, he would of course point out everything that John missed, which wouldn't be that much because John could deduce in his own right, but he would have done it with a tender smile on his face. Everyone saw how deep their relationship was. There was only one title that seemed to fit those two because everything else made it seem superficial. They were soul mates, whether they liked it or not. He couldn't see how they wouldn't like it though. Even though they drove each other up the wall like an old married couple, at the end of the day, they were inseparable and meant to be in each other's lives.

**

Sarah wasn't the only one who hated seeing John in pain, recovering by millimeters. Molly was the one to help orchestrate Sherlock's death. She had to deal with holding in the secret that she was the only to know that he was alive. Still, she maintained her usual chipper demeanor. But she couldn't help but think back to when they had to formulate it.

He suggested at first that he should take some of the Rhododendron ponticum and Grayanotoxin that would make his pulse stop temporarily because he knew that John would be the first to check. They both realized that this wouldn't work because of several things. The time it would take for him to get out of the truck that one of the people from the homeless network would be driving wouldn't be enough because John would be sprinting to the scene. There wasn't enough time for the drug to take effect. Plus, in order to look dead, it would involve fake blood. Lots of it. It should be easy; just pouring it all over his hair and lying on the pavement. However, he knew that John would see right through it. She noticed that while he was working out the plan, his eyes, while they were wild, still held this sadness. Her deduction proved to be correct: He was sad when he thought John couldn't see him. Now that he knew that John thought he would never be able to see him again, he didn't even bother to try and hide it. She loved Sherlock even though he treated her like crap, but seeing him this broken about having to leave the one he loved behind, she would do anything to help him. If she was anything to him, she was going to be the one to save both of them in the end.

Molly's plan was brilliant, really. She found a corpse that looked like him and dressed it up, slapped on a wig and doused it in blood, and waited for her cue. Thanks to the flat that was in front of Bart's, Sherlock landed into the very padded truck bed without being seen actually falling into it. One of the people from the network on their bike collided with John, giving the group of nurses and doctors the chance to create the scene, and to disorient him. Sherlock specifically said she didn't count when talking to Moriarty because he needed her and he needed her to be safe. As soon as he landed in the truck, she planted the body and sprinted away. From the shadows, she saw John walking to the scene, still wobbly. She swore she could hear his heart shattering as soon as he saw the body and she had to step back, her sobbing becoming uncontrollable. She received a text from an unknown number that said, "Take care of him. And thank you for everything, Molly." Taking a moment to compose herself, she returned to the mortuary to await "Sherlock", putting on her game face for John.

Everyone was still trying to find their way through life without him. Even Donovan and Anderson attended the funeral, her head buried in his shoulder and the tears streaming down her face. She knew she made a mess of things, but she had no idea that it would lead to this. Nothing could have prepared her for how his death shook London to its core. Sherlock had embedded himself in each of their lives and to have him ripped out…leaving wounds was an understatement. They left the funeral silent, both contemplating how they treated him like he was a freak. But he wasn't a freak; he was the most brilliant man they had ever met. After that day, they were especially tactful with John. They experienced what military John was capable of after they gave Sherlock a particularly hard time. That was something they never wanted to go through again.

It took approximately John 15 months before he finally felt like he could be okay without him. Like his heart wasn't going to break every time he passed Angelo's, or passed by a hat shop with a deerstalker in the window, or when he saw a tall brunette in a swishy coat walk by him. Then he went back a couple of steps. He had to muster up the courage he had as a solider, being able to walk away from battle with his composure intact after seeing his friends die on the battlefield. It seemed like he had let his heart rule his head for so long, it occurred to him that this was a battle that he was just never going to win.


	2. Kiss With a Fist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's gotten into the habit of reading books and is happy when he befriends an adventurous and elderly widower who shares the same interests as him.

He had never read that many books until now, so when he finished all of the books in his flat, he started going to the London Library. It had been a while since he had been in one. The last time he recalled going there was during his days studying at Bart's. He considered it to be a safe haven to study for exams when Harry was having her own set of problems back at home.

Going in there, the memories of studying during the late hours made his mouth twitch with into a smile. In his group of friends, they would always bicker about whose turn it was to get coffee. Piles of textbooks surrounded them as papers flew everywhere as the sounds of their pencils scratched madly onto their notes. Keeping with library decorum, they kept their voices to a minimum, but it was a never ending stream of explanations. Often at times, the stream jumped from person to person, each giving their input. They occupied a corner of the library, spreading out all their things over two or three tables. The elderly librarian had taken a liking to them because they were polite but tremendously hard-working. She shooed them out right as the library closed, but she smiled as she did so.

With a little bit of trepidation, he approached the counter and inquired about obtaining a library card. To be honest, he felt a little silly as he was given a tour of the library. It made him feel like he was back in primary school when his mum went with him for the first time to the library. Once the tour was done, he wandered around, letting his eyes slide over the titles. Nothing in particular caught his eye until he saw  _Atlas Shrugged._ He remembered reading it in secondary school for his literature class and that it was an absolute nightmare because it was so thick. In the end, he had to consult a lot of his friends for help when the time came to deliver a book report on it. Shaking his head, he continued looking.

Eventually, he settled down and grabbed  _A Farewell to Arms_ off of a shelf _._  His dad always encouraged him to read the classics and he found that he enjoyed them a lot. He found a nice squashy arm chair near a window and sat down. An elderly man sat in the chair next to him, offering a curt nod. John returned it and started reading. About two hours later, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Excuse me sir, but what section did you find that book in? I have been trying to find Hemingway, but to no avail." The man asked.

"Oh, I can show you sir," John replied.

The two made their way to the section and the man picked up his book, giving his thanks. They returned to where they sat and resumed reading, a comfortable silence between them.

"He loved Hemingway." John looked up from his book and looked at the old man, who was lost in thought.

"Sorry?"

"My best friend. He would always tell me how his parents got him to read early. Eventually, he roped me into it too." He held up his copy of  _The Old Man and the Sea._  "My dad loved this story. He said it spoke to him."

John's book laid forgotten as the two began to talk more about their favorite books. From that day on, they met at the café in the library, bought their cups of tea and took their place by the window. The elderly man, whose name was Carl, reminded John of his grandfather. He was wise, but he still had a bit of spunk. He was a widower, but he wasn't bitter. His wife told him before she died that he needed to go out and have an adventure of his own, so he did. He traveled all over Europe, Asia, and eventually South America with his camera, determined to compile his photos into a photo album. One day, he brought it with him and John was blown away. Some of them looked like they could have been paintings in all their solidarity.

"Carl, these are amazing!"

"You think so?"

"Of course they are. They're extraordinary. Quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"I want your talent. Can you bestow some upon me?"

They both laughed at the grandeur of that statement. John felt a chill run down his spine, but he ignored it. It was probably the temperature of the room.

Carl was curious about what other books John like to read, so one day, he asked John if he could accompany him back to his flat. At first, he was a little hesitant because he hadn't had anyone over in what felt like forever. He decided to let Carl come over after their rendezvous because he enjoyed his company.

They made their way back to 221B in a cab, making small talk. The cabbie assumed that Carl was John's grandfather, but John merely smiled and said, "I wish." After entering the room, John went into the kitchen to make some tea. Carl wandered around the flat, smiling at the skull on the mantle and the Cluedo board stabbed with the knife to the wall. He noted the music on the stand, impressed at the composition.

John boiled the water in the electric kettle and picked out the tea. He placed some biscuits, jam, tea, milk, and honey on the tray. After bringing it into the living room and placing it on the table, he started putting his books away.

"So Carl, find anything interesting in my flat?"

"Has my skull been keeping you company?" A deep baritone voice rang out.

It felt like someone knocked the wind out of him, because he should  **not**  have heard that voice. It was only supposed to exist in his memory. His heart was about to break out of his ribcage as he slowly turned around. A pair of piercing blue eyes met his and John's world spun. Carl's clothing, a wig, a beard, and his hat were on the ground.

"Joh—"

He didn't finish his sentence since John landed a nice clean cross to his cheek. It didn't end there though. John tackled him to the ground, his thoughts consumed with anger and rage. Sherlock knew he had this coming to him and he did nothing to stop him, but he at least wanted to get a word in. John straddled him, his fists flying everywhere, every punch emphasizing his point.

"What the **fuck** are you doing here!? You are supposed to be dead!"

"John, if you let me exp—"

"THREE YEARS SHERLOCK! THREE FUCKING YEARS!"

"I had to do it f—"

"FOR _**WHAT**_?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU BEING DEAD HAS DONE TO EVERYONE?" John left  _me_ unsaid, but he was sure that Sherlock knew that anyway.

"IF YOU WOULD STOP PUNCHING ME, I WILL EXPLAIN!"

John stopped long enough to look down at his best friend. He blinked a few times, as if to convince himself that Sherlock was real and that this wasn't just some horrible dream. Sherlock looked up at him, analyzing the weariness on the army doctor's face and he mentally berated himself for putting him through this. John hesitantly reached down to touch his cheek and then slapped him for good measure.

"You and your damn cheekbones," he said with an exasperated laugh.

He furrowed his eyebrows. "What's with my cheekbones?"

"Nothing. Just…everyone seems to love them."

"Including you?"

John's eyes widened. "No I didn't sa—"

"You didn't have to." He smirked, but it faded away and was replaced by a gentle smile. "Better?"

John already knew what he meant and giggled. "Loads."

"You might want to heat up the water for the tea again. I suspect it's cold now."

They moved hesitantly around each other at first. It should have been easy for them to settle around in their old routine, but it wasn't. Three years of being separated and then coming back together was disorienting. After a few hours, the tension in the air has dissipated completely. It didn't take very long for this to happen because he had never lost hope. He knew that Sherlock was alive, even if everyone else thought he was off his rocker.

They took their place on the couch, Sherlock stretched out over the length of the couch with his feet in John's lap. John handed him a bag of ice for his bruises before turning on the telly. He drank his tea and he finally felt like he was at peace. However, there was one thing that was nagging him.

"Sherlock, how did you do it?"

"Molly helped me out. Simple body swap when I landed in the truck. The biker that ran into you was meant to be a diversion in order to disorient you."

John snorted. "Well, that worked out well. It had me fooled."

"That and you wanted to see a dead me, so that's what you saw."

"Like with the hound?"

"Exactly. Remember how I told you to stay in front of the building?"

"That was to block my view of you landing in the truck?"

"You catch on quickly."

"I learned from you."

"Any other questions?"

"Why did you do it?"

"Moriarty had snipers aimed at you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. The only way that you all could live was that if I died."

His heart lurched at the memory of that day. "It felt like time stopped that day. But I never gave up on you. Everyone else accepted that you were a fraud, but I just couldn't. That's not the Sherlock that I know."

"And who IS the Sherlock you know?"

"An idiot who gets off on weird cases. But he's never wrong. Well, except the time that he thought we got drugged by sugar."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "That was one time. That will never happen again."

"Of course. Because you always have to aim for perfection. If not that, then it's just being right all the time. But how come it took you so long to come back?"

"I had to make sure that none of Moriarty's henchmen were going to hurt you. I really did travel to get away. His henchmen, especially Sebastian Moran, were still out looking for me. Leaving the country was the only was way to confirm their suspicions."

"So…are they all gone?"

"Almost. Moran is the last one out there, still searching for me. He's Moriarty's right hand man. But he's just begging to get caught because Lestrade has been on the warpath since I 'died'."

"I can attest to that. He's just been relentless in his cases."

"But until then, I'm just going to have to lie low here. Would that bother you?"

John gave him a look. "Do you have to ask?"

Sherlock blinked and resumed watching telly. "So, anything good on the telly?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to do a modern update of his return in "The Adventure of the Empty House" because I thought it would be a lot more fun. Plus, I got to use angry!John and we all know that we want him to beat the crap out of Sherlock when Series 3 returns.


	3. Decoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has one last thing to do to give him piece of mind. As always, he's dragged John into the mess, leaving him completely in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In canon, Moran was arrested for the murder of Ronald Adair. However, I wanted to put a twist on the premise on his arrest, so I only referenced the case.

"Sherlock, this is never going to work," John said while reading the newspaper one morning.

Across the table, Sherlock was dressing up the mannequin in his old clothes and putting on a wig. John didn't even bother asking where he got it from. Frankly, he stopped asking where he got most of his things from the day that the severed head decided to make its grand appearance in their refrigerator.

He grunted. "Of course it will. Moriarty knew that when I wasn't out solving crimes, I was going about my business in our flat. Moran was his right hand man and he told him everything about me. Therefore, Moran will be expecting me to be doing just that."

"But staying in a chair all day? The only time I remember you doing that was when I had that row with the Chip and Pin machine. I mean it took a while, but it didn't take all day, that's for sure."

"Trust me. Moran will just assume I'm reading."

"But staying in the exact same position? I hardly think that will convince him."

He smirked. "Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson will be taking care of that."

John's eyes widened. "Oh come on! Please don't tell me that you're going to put her in danger too."

Sherlock held up the mannequin. There were wires attached to its shoulders, arms, and wrists. "I'm going to place hooks in the ceiling and thread the wires through them. All she has to do is move them every now and then. If there's no discernible pattern for my movement, it will look completely normal."

"You honestly think that this is going to fool Moran?"

"Oh I believe so. Our curtains should provide sufficient coverage."

"So…in the meantime, what are we going to do?"

"We're going to have a stake out."

John was drinking his tea and almost coughed. "Sorry what?"

"You see, sources have told Moran that I've returned and if I'm right, he'll try and kill me tonight. BUT! All of Scotland Yard got wind of this, so we'll have a little help from them. This should make Lestrade happy."

"So…why do we need to stake out?"

"It's going to be rather fun, don't you think? Seeing Moran outraged at just the mannequin and it not being me?"

"You have the strangest idea of what 'fun' is. But what about Mrs. Hudson?"

"She'll be fine. After all, she did hide a cell phone in her bra to protect us."

He hesitantly nodded. "Where are we going to have this stake out?"

Sherlock got up from the table and started working on putting the hooks in the ceiling. He started humming a nonsensical melody with a quirky smile on his face.

"Sherlock?"

"Don't worry about it, dear John. You'll find out in time."

"What about the Adair murder case?"

"Dull. Nothing was stolen."

* * *

 

"In time" turned out to be three hours later when it was dark outside. To his surprise, it was only across the street in an abandoned flat, but they had a perfect view into 221B. John was surprised at the likeness the mannequin had to Sherlock from behind the lace curtains. He had to admit, the wires helped him look more realistic. They sat on a blanket that covered the ground with only their torch providing a low illumination between them. It vaguely reminded John of the first time they ate dinner together when the owner thought that he was Sherlock's date. He had to draw his lips in to stop himself from laughing.

"What?" Sherlock looked across the way.

"Nothing. Just…thinking…" John looked out the window, deep in thought.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but let it slide. He thought back to when he first decided to return to London. Three years had been too long for him to have been away from everyone. John especially. When it occurred to him that he had to die in order for everyone to live, he was the first person who came to mind. Convincing him that he was a fake should have been easy. It wasn't though. John never gave up on him and he always saw through when other people tried to tell him to avoid Sherlock or to believe the lies. Sweet, loyal, and patient John. How he managed to put up with half of the shenanigans that Sherlock put him through baffled him, but actually staying with him was what blew his mind. He was aware of what everyone said about them, but he never denied it, mainly because it wasn't relevant to his work. Unfortunately, when The Woman entered the picture, it forced him to reevaluate. Something about her created a shift in his relationship with John, not that he was complaining about it. John was not just his only friend, but he considered him his best friend. After they had that fight, he was so afraid that he was going to lose him. John kept him sane, and grounded. They fit together in each other's lives so effortlessly. If he lost that, he wouldn't have known what to do with himself.

But he did. He had to for his protection. While he was Carl, having to convince John that doing all that traveling was the best time of his life so much wasn't that difficult. The traveling itself was rather dull. He had to settle for reading people while he was out sightseeing or sitting in cafes, watching life go by. There wasn't anyone to rattle off his deductions to, nor was there someone to tell him how brilliant he was. Sometimes, he forgot about that. The first time it happened, he was sitting in his hotel room, staring at the wall. He said, "Could you pass me a pen?" and waited expectantly for John to toss it to him. He was writing down all his thoughts because writing on his blog was out of the question. An hour passed before he realized that John wasn't there. An unfamiliar sensation arose in his chest, like his heart sank. All he knew was that he hated it and didn't want to experience it again. There were times when he wanted to whip out his phone and text John something funny that he saw, but he froze. With resignation, he put it away and moved on. Now that he was back, this was the last thing standing in between him and living a free life. He was so deep in thought that he didn't realize that John was practically punching him to get his attention.

"John! What the h—mfff?" John covered his mouth and dragged them both into the dark corner of the room. Sherlock had to contort his legs to fit into the shadows and managed to find a semi-comfortable position nestled against John's chest.

"It seems we have a visitor," John whispered. The minute he heard the door open, he knew that something was wrong. Even if it was nothing of the sort, he wasn't going to take any chances of getting caught trespassing. He dimmed his torch until it was off, but even then Sherlock wasn't moving. It was as if he was in some sort of trance. At first, he whispered his name, eventually increasing in volume. When that wasn't enough, that's when he punched him in the arm.

The door flew open and Sherlock's heart stopped. It was Moran with a sniper gun in hand. Sherlock and John both stopped breathing, afraid that the most minute movement or sound would give away their hiding spot. They watched with wide eyes as Moran settled in front of the window. He set up his gun and opened the window. Sherlock looked up at John and they thought the same thing: Mrs. Hudson. They only hoped that she was downstairs and not in their flat. Having to go through the panic of her getting shot, only for it to be false was stressful enough for John. For her to actually get shot…he didn't even want to encroach on that thought.

Sherlock poked him in the leg and John looked down at him. Sherlock's eyes flitted madly and even in the shadows, John could see them twinkle. He knew exactly what he was thinking and was mentally preparing himself to make his move. They both turned to look at Moran, who was preparing to make his kill. They both stood up as slowly as possible, aware of every muscle contracting and relaxing, every joint moving in its socket. Moran looked through his crosshair and fired. It was clean shot through "Sherlock's" head and he smiled. He was prepared for a quick getaway, but not for a small, but powerful army doctor to disarm and restrain him.

Moran looked up and was shocked to see his intended target with a smug grin on his face.

"Hello Sebastian. Didn't expect to see you using this empty flat in order to kill me," Sherlock greeted.

Moran struggled to fight John's restraints and snarled. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"What do you think?"

At that moment, Lestrade and his officers bursted into the room. They all stopped in their tracks at the sight of Sherlock. It was clear that their brains were having difficulty catching up to their mouths because they were gaping like fish.

"You can ask all the questions you want later. Please just take care of him," he said curtly.

Lestrade was the first to snap out of it. He slapped a pair of handcuffs on Moran's wrists, giving his spiel on what grounds he was arrested, which turned out to be for conspiracy to murder.

Moran sneered. "Not only is that a ridiculous charge, but how exactly can you prove that?"

Donovan popped up next to him and held up a nice thick envelope stuffed with papers. "I hold here two years' worth of emails exchanged between you and a nice little bird in Parliament. For some reason, this little bird wasn't too happy with the way that the Lord Speaker wasn't running things and came to you for help in erm, remedying the situation."

Moran's face fell. Naturally, Sherlock had to have the last word. "Say hi to my big brother for me."

Donovan led Moran away with a little more force than necessary. Before they left, she turned to look at Sherlock. "Hello fr—Sherlock. It's good to see you." She gave a small smile, which he returned, and she left the flat.

Lestrade clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. He was still trying to absorb the fact that he was alive, so he settled for saying, "Welcome back, Sherlock. We've missed you." It was short and polite, but it was enough for him.

Once everyone left, the two men stared out the window to their home. Luckily, the window had the single bullet hole, so they could live with having a small draft until it could get replaced.

"I don't think I've ever seen you so rattled before!" John said with a laugh.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but smiled instead. "I thought of every possibility of what could have happened tonight, but obviously, I didn't think of everything."

"Shall we head back? I'm worried about Mrs. Hudson. Plus, I could use a nice cup of tea."

"You could use a nice cup of tea any time."

"Any time is a good time for tea."

They headed back to 221B and felt like the last bit weight was truly lifted. It seemed like a fair trade: Moriarty's last man behind bars in exchange for finally living without fear for their lives.


	4. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was never that fond of parties, but John was insistent on at least a small, intimate, gathering to welcome Sherlock's rise from the dead. He wouldn't give in to John's ideas, but this time, he supposed he could do it for John.

It was John's idea, really. He thought it would be fun, but Sherlock thought that it would be rather dull. However, after the events of the Christmas party, he decided to be more open-minded about it. It was just going to be a small gathering of friends to welcome his return.

While Sherlock was out working on a minor case one Saturday morning, John went to Tesco to pick up some food for everyone. He learned from a young age that whenever friends came over, one should always have food to offer, even if they already had dinner. His mum made it painfully clear when he was a teenager and his friends insisted that they were fine. She badgered all of them before walking away with a smile and a huff. As the sun started to set over London, he tidied up the flat to make it look somewhat more presentable.

Sherlock returned in a good mood; the break in the case was a broken bobby pin found in the hallway. As he went on in his usual manner in giving his deductions, John couldn't help but smile and gave his normal praise with the occasional input. It was like nothing changed at all. Those three years were probably the longest of his life. It was like before Sherlock came into the picture, except this time he was imprinted on everything John did, which only made it harder to move on. Shaking his head out of his reverie, he continued to clean up, and then put the food out on the table. Nothing too fancy, just some chips and dip.

The first to arrive were Molly and Lestrade. Apparently after the Christmas party incident, they had become a lot closer in the wake of his wife's affair. The transition from friends to more than friends was a smooth one for them. To their surprise, Sherlock hugged both of them, but he gave Molly an especially big one. At this point, only John, Sherlock, and Molly knew the truth about what happened. They intended to keep it that way, which was okay with them. With Lestrade, it was more of a man hug that was held a little longer than normal. Sherlock returned to the kitchen and started rummaging around, muttering nonsense under his breath. More people started coming, so John opened Spotify and hit the Coldplay station. The silence wasn't awkward, but the music made the atmosphere a lot more comfortable.

Next were Anderson and Donovan, who brought a bottle of white wine as a peace offering. Their sheepish smiles indicated that they were still hesitant about coming to the party. John offered them a place on their couch, assuring them that what's done is done. Sarah came later with Stamford in tow. They were only colleagues, but their association with Sherlock and John helped them come to the decision that they would be okay coming to the party. Once they started talking to everyone else, they relaxed significantly and began enjoying themselves.

Sherlock emerged from the kitchen, carrying a bag of red cups in one hand, and a 24 pack of Boddingtons in the other. Everyone looked at him like he suddenly turned ginger, the questions evident all over their faces.

"Alright. John and I were talking about our days before we stepped into the 'real world' and he brought up how while in college, he played this game called beer pong. Has anyone played it?"

Everyone raised their hands.

"Oh. I heard that people play better the longer they play it. However, I think that can't be possible since the more you drink, the more your senses are impaired. Therefore, it would seem more likely that your accuracy would decrease the longer you play. I want to test this."

"Sherlock, if you just wanted to play, you could have just said so," John said with a pointed look on his face.

It almost looked like he was blushing, not that he would ever admit it. Everyone snickered, but smiled. The blushing suited him; it was endearing. "Oh, erm…I suppose I'll just set it up then."

"Do you need help?"

"No, I think I got it. I looked it up on the internet."

They were about to sort into teams and write them out on a piece of paper when Mycroft walked in. Everyone froze. To see him outside of his role in the British government was a bit like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs. Sherlock was the first one to make a move, gesturing to the corner of the room by the window. John cleared the kitchen table, and Molly and Lestrade help set it up for beer pong.

"Hello brother dear. Come to enjoy our festivities?" He asked.

"As a matter of fact, I have. But most importantly, I wanted to check up on you. Mummy was overjoyed when she heard that you were alive. Your 'death' crushed her, Sherlock. I hope you realized the repercussions of your actions."

"I had my reasons," he replied as his eyes slid over to John, who returned a crinkly smile. He returned a big grin that faded when he turned back to Mycroft.

"I would have expected a happy announcement by now, little brother," Mycroft said with a smirk.

He blushed again, but narrowed his eyes. "Can we not talk about that?"

"Of course. It's clear to everyone here what's going on."

"Please enlighten me because it seems like I've forgotten something," Sherlock said dryly.

Mycroft was just about to open his mouth, but shouting and cheering interrupted him. The brothers looked over to see Anderson and Donovan playing against Lestrade and Molly. It was getting heated because the latter team was beating the former by a very large amount based on the stack of red cups on the former's side of the table. Donovan wasn't amused because she hated losing and Anderson was starting to feel the pressure from her. Molly was a trooper and drank from every cup that she missed, slowly becoming more and more giggly. In the end, her and Lestrade won and leaned against the island. They tapped their glasses of water together and almost downed them. One game was enough for them so they sat on the couch and snuggled.

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. "Shall we?"

"Challenge accepted," he replied with a twinkle in his eye.

They were equally matched in their skills, even though neither of them had played before. It was all a matter of strategy and careful planning. One after another, they drank their cups and grimaced a little bit at the taste. Mycroft emerged victorious, and Sherlock flopped on the couch and pouted. He had always been a sore loser as a child and even as an adult, nothing changed.

* * *

 

Everyone played against each other at least once and when that was done, they all sat in the living room. They took all the chairs so that they were all in a circle. They either sat on them or on the floor and leaned against them. The food and alcohol sat on the floor between all of them. John had taken the alcohol off Harry's hands since she was declared sober, and had brought it out, much to everyone's delight. The flat was filled with the sounds of laughter as everyone exchanged stories of weird cases back in the early days of their careers. At this point, they were all drunk, as shown by their revealing of more embarrassing stories with no remorse. The fact that they were all also extremely giggly proved this point.

John struggled to get up, but he managed to find his way to the kitchen to get a pitcher of water. He overheard Donovan challenging Sherlock to sort all of them into the different drunken archetypes. Considering his size and the fact that he didn't drink that much to begin with, it was more than comical to see him deduce in his drunken stupor. Everyone was laughing uncontrollably, except Mycroft. He merely chuckled while he sat on the couch, swirling his glass of white wine. It was refreshing for him to see his brother so unwound and in the company of such good friends. It gave him hope that he would have a good support system for the future and that he wouldn't have to worry about him all the time. He had no intention in taking a large part in this party, so he was content seeing how the evening played out.

John thought the exact same thing Mycroft did while he was in the kitchen. His head swirled as he found the pitcher, but he took a moment to lay back and observe everything. This was partly the alcohol talking, but he felt like his relationship with Sherlock has improved so much and that they've become so much closer... He didn't realize that he was staring at him until the detective was giving him that look like he was practically undressing him with his eyes. John's skin crawled, but whether it was in a good way or a bad way was debatable at this point.

_Just the alcohol talking. Just the alcohol talking._

"I think…that we should play Spin-the-bottle!" Molly practically shouted it while she was nestled against Lestrade. "It would be sooooo much fun, don't you think?"

"Y'know, she's got a point," Donovan replied. "We're among friends. This could be very interesting."

* * *

 

The rules were set: Everyone had to kiss everyone, location could be decided between both parties, and the length didn't matter. John returned to the circle with the pitcher and more glasses and placed them on the table. He sat down next to Sherlock, who scooted closer until theirs arms and thighs were brushing. A low burning sensation ignited from the contact and John's skin crawled. He wasn't the only one feeling it though. Sherlock was aware of what being close to John was doing to him. Even though his mind was resilient, he was not going to deny that the alcohol was bringing out all the subconscious feelings that he had suppressed after all this time. He missed having John by his side after all this time and after he saw how the world went on, he realized that he needed to live life to the fullest…

Donovan was right about the game. It was really interesting seeing the dynamics of alcohol significantly lowered everyone's inhibitions. The women seemed to be more affected than the men; probably because they were more open with their sexuality. Whenever one of them spun the bottle and it landed on another, they grabbed each other's collars and just started making out. In the case of the men, they gave each other an air kiss like they were posh, a real kiss on the cheek if they were a little braver. All other combinations consisted of chaste friendly kisses, but the couples had no problem putting on a show.

The longer the game went on, the more that John hoped that when he spun it, it would land on the currently giggling consulting detective next to him.  _This is so ridiculous,_ he thought.  _I am not in secondary school anymore and this is not some clandestine party in a friend's attic. We are all fully grown adults playing a teenage game. But I'm having such a good time._  He looked around and saw everyone as they hooted and hollered; particularly any time the bottle landed on Sherlock, whose eyes lit up like Christmas had come early. He couldn't help but feel a little pang of jealousy as his flatmate gave sloppy kisses. The last time he was this jealous was when The Woman was in the picture. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought that she supported the idea of him being in a relationship with Sherlock.

"JOHN!" He snapped out of it to see that all eyes were on him.

"I've missed something, haven't I?" If this were a cartoon, a light bulb would have popped over his head and turned on.

"It's your turn, Jawn," Sarah drawled. She had a serene smile on her face as she took a swig from the half-empty bottle of rum. For a split second, he was reminded of Elizabeth from Pirates of the Caribbean, drinking her troubles away on that godforsaken island.

He spun the empty wine bottle and his heart pounded. At last, it stopped spinning and it landed on none other than Sherlock. They looked at each other, frozen. Everyone practically lost it because this was the moment they had all been waiting for since they had started solving crimes together. Secretly, they had made a pool to determine how long the kiss would last between the two of them. It was getting heavier and heavier, but they were all so sure. Molly was the last one to put in her money and waited patiently.

Licking his lips had always been a habit of his, but he never realized how much it meant to Sherlock. He had to admit, he was a little turned on when he saw Sherlock's eyes flick down to his mouth when his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. There was almost this hunger in Sherlock's eyes that should have frightened him, but the alcohol had loosened his mind. He almost wanted to drown in them…

"Er, so how should we go about this?" John asked. It was the dumbest question, but he just blurted it out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I assume you've kissed people before."

"Obviously, Sherlock."

"It's not any different with me, then?"

"Well, no…"

"Then you know how it works."

"Well, yeah…"

"What's stopping you?" He had a devilish smirk on his face at this point.

"Nothing!"

"So why are we still talking?"

John was about to say something, but shut up. They both leaned in, highly aware of every pair of eyes on them. His breathing got heavier and he hoped that no one could hear it. Sherlock was feeling the pressure too. While he was away, he often saw couples walking by, giving each other quick kisses. Out of curiosity, he envisioned him and John in the crowd. It should have felt wrong to imagine themselves in those circumstances, but it was just natural. He often wondered what it would be like to kiss John, and now he was finally going to find out.

John, on his side of the continent, did the same amount of envisioning. He didn't dare call it daydreaming, because it felt too trivial. He was in for the shock of his life.

When they finally did kiss, the roar of the crowd was nothing compare to the rush of blood in their ears.


	5. Just a Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's kind of hard to focus on a game when your very drunk flatmate is blatantly seducing you. It's even harder when you're trying to do the same thing.

It was just supposed to be a quick kiss between two friends.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

This wasn't just a pair of friends though.

It started a little hesitant, a little unsure. Once the reality of the situation sunk in, they explored more. Sherlock's hand wove into John's hair, pulling him in closer. John pulled Sherlock's shirt and yanked him in. Their heads tilted further to deepen the kiss, but this wasn't enough. Not for them. Reluctantly, they pulled apart and gave each other a small smile. The rush of adrenaline really cleared up their minds to all the possibilities. Everyone had practically stopped breathing during this exchange, but Molly was the first to pipe up.

"That pool is mine!" She grabbed Donovan's hat that had been used to collect the money and hugged it like it was a newborn kitten. She was tempted to victory dance on a table, but she decided to bear a grin like she just unlocked all the secrets of the universe.

"Wait…what did you all bet on?" John asked indignantly.

"That you two would snog when the time came," Donovan replied with an eye roll. She grinned and leaned against Anderson, who put an arm around her and laid a kiss on her forehead.

"I knew from the first moment you two met, there was something special there," Stamford added with a nod.

Sherlock and John both turned a furious scarlet. A long time ago, John stopped trying to deny the fact that anything was going on between them. It seemed like no matter how hard he insisted, they all just gave him a wistful smile, unconvinced. He just ran with it to keep the peace. "So shall we continue?"

* * *

 

There had to be some sort of law against seducing your flatmate in public. It became an unspoken challenge between the two of them to take the slow burn and make it a scorching flame. Before, their sides were barely touching. Now, they were firmly pressed against one another. John put his glass across from Sherlock so that it was an excuse to mutter something dirty in his ear every time he reached to get it. They sat on the floor and leaned against the couch, so Sherlock draped his arm over the cushions. He occasionally ran his fingers along John's scalp while maintaining an innocent smile. John had to work really hard to suppress a shudder and control his breathing because it felt so good. His mouth went dry when he felt Sherlock's fingers brush against the outer edge of his earlobe. Fire shot right to his groin and he shifted his position to accommodate his suddenly tight-fitting jeans.

Sensing a need to retaliate, he slipped his hand behind Sherlock and lifted up the back of his shirt enough to draw lazy circles on his back. He almost dropped the cup of water he was holding, aware of every goose bump that rose. His breath immediately got heavier and he looked at John, his blue eyes two shades darker. John didn't take his eyes off him as his hand wandered near his hip, ghosting downward. The result was that Sherlock almost choked on his water, but John smacked him on the back a few times for good measure. What was most surprising was that no one even noticed what was going on. They continued playing the game, laughing hysterically. John took advantage of the situation by innocently patting Sherlock on his thigh, giving him a smile which turned evil as his hand wandered down near his inner thigh. He watched bemused as the bulge in his flatmate's pants got larger. He got within inches of it and went back towards Sherlock's knee. He could have strangled him then.

Around 2 in the morning, everyone left. They thanked John for hosting such a lovely party and patted Sherlock on the back, sympathetic to him for the hangover that he was going to have when he woke up. It was relatively quiet in the flat, save for the background music. John shook his head at the next song that played, which turned out to be "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails. How this ended up on the same station as Coldplay was beyond him. They didn't really seem to fit in the same genre.

Sherlock swayed around the flat with a drunken swagger while John gathered all of the empty beer cans and empty alcohol bottles. He threw them into the recycling bin in the kitchen, and collected all the red cups from beer pong. Tossing them into the trash, he moved to the living room and rearranged the furniture.

"Jawn, who listens to this music? It's rather dull," he slurred. John had to fight snickering because in his inebriated state, Sherlock looked like Captain Jack Sparrow walking around. Still, his head was clearer after that kiss.

"Not everyone has your impeccable music taste," he retorted as he walked back to the kitchen, carrying a spare bottle of tequila. This song made the tension in the flat thicken a hundred-fold with the particularly vulgar, but undeniably erotic, lyrics. He couldn't help but really take them in as he wandered around the living room, picking up extra trash while glancing at Sherlock every now and then.

 **Help me tear down my reason**  
Help me; it's your sex I can smell  
Help me; you make me perfect  
Help me become somebody else

As soon as he placed the bottle in the fridge, Sherlock's hand slammed it shut. John gulped, his mouth dry. He felt the heat of Sherlock's body come in closer and closer until his chest brushed against his back.

"John, I had no idea your lips were so soft… You've been using that bloody chapstick more to make up for you licking your lips. It's not sufficient enough to keep them moisturized," he murmured. His hot breath tickled his ear, and John's eyes almost slid shut. There was no way he was going to keep his composure for much longer if he kept this up. The man read John like a book and knew every way to make his heart race.

"Er, Sherlock? I think you've had a bit too much to drink tonight…" he trailed off when he tried to turn around and his best friend's eyes had gone dark. "Can you please mo—"

Their noses were almost touching, Sherlock's hands were by his head, and John could almost count all of the colors in his eyes. Too many of them, especially in the dim lighting of the kitchen.  _Definitely too close. We are all alone and drunk. We kissed and we both liked it a lot. This is could end either very well or very badly…_

 _"_ Wha," he swallowed thickly, "what are you doing?" His voice was gravelly because Sherlock had that obscene look in his eyes.

"Your eyes," he replied in a low voice that rumbled deep in his chest.

"What about them?"

"Exactly how many colors are there in them?"

"How should I know? It's not exactly one of those things I know off the top of my head," John replied sarcastically.

"Do you realize that you were one step away from getting me into my bedroom back there? We could have given them something to talk about," he said with a smirk.

"Huh? What are you talking about?" He knew exactly what he meant, but somehow that message from his brain didn't translate to his mouth.

"Your hands went to the areas of my body where the skin was thinnest and where touch would be the most sensitive. You knew that was I was already in a state of arousal from our kiss, and I you. You love power plays and this was one that you were not going to back down from. Hence, the more my touches affected you, the more you retaliated and the more that I enjoyed it. Your pulse elevated, your pupils dilated, and your breathing got heavier. Signs of arousal. Obvious. You had no idea how much I wanted to drag you off to my bedroom and bring you to orgasm so hard that all of London knew that you were having the shag of your life."

John stared at him, dumbfounded. He didn't think that Sherlock articulating his actions could have been considered erotic, but he was wrong. Two could play at that game. "You kept leaning in to me when my fingernails trailed over your back because you wanted me to touch you more. You shuddered because you felt goosebumps form over every inch of your skin. Don't think I didn't see how your eyes flew open when my hand wandered near your hip and almost went down your pants. I know you and I know how powerful your mind is. It filled in the blanks for you. I thought you would have appreciated the leg massage. It would have gone further, but I figured torturing you would have been more fun. The Woman would be proud of me. I would have you on that table right now and make you beg for mercy twice without even trying." How he managed to say this without attacking Sherlock was beyond him. But he was proud of the way his words had an effect on him.

Sherlock's eyes widened, but they got darker as his pupils dilated even more, giving him an almost predatory appearance. He leaned even further into John to the point where their lips were a hair-width away from each other. Their eyes were hooded, determine to see the effect that they had on each other. Only the sound of their breathing was louder than the song, which started to sound like it was setting up the ambiance for the situation.

They didn't say anything to each other for what seemed like the longest time. It was another game: who was going to make the first move?

John did, crushing his mouth to Sherlock's. Three years of unspoken feelings poured into it, all raw emotion. Hands immediately started flying everywhere, desperate to grab onto anything to keep them together. He roughly grabbed Sherlock's hips and pulled them against his, needing contact. His fingers ran through Sherlock's hair, effectively locking his head in place while he practically bruised his mouth. He smirked when he got a shudder in response to his nails raking the scalp. Sherlock tasted like bourbon, and tasted utterly intoxicating. He didn't think that he would be snogging his flatmate senseless, with a fair amount of tongue at that, but it wasn't like he was complaining.

Sherlock started to pull out John's jumper from the waistband of his jeans, while he felt his shirt being quickly unbuttoned. His thoughts, which normally ran in a single, but coherent stream, felt and would have visualized like static on the telly. He had no idea how to take things from here, which unsettled him, but then John groaned, and his mind turned off and his body took over. They broke the kiss long enough for Sherlock to take off John's jumper and shirt, but that didn't stop John from taking off Sherlock's shirt and throwing in a random direction. John tried to get off of the fridge, but he just got shoved back against it; Sherlock was stronger than he looked. He held John's head in his hands and kissed him everywhere. His hands scanned John's torso, memorizing the firm muscle beneath the scarred skin, torn and put back together by those years in Afghanistan. Those jumpers didn't do any favors for him, but he adored them, so he decided not to make John get rid of them.

John's hands wandered down to Sherlock's belt, fumbling to undo it. He had no idea what the hell he was doing, but all he knew was that he wanted Sherlock  **now**. This wasn't just the alcohol talking, though it was helping him come to terms with his feelings.

"Sherlock," he sighed as he felt an effective hickey formed in his neck.

"God, what?" He replied, his voice muffled.

"Bedroom. Now," John growled. He didn't even know how his voice did that, but evidently it turned Sherlock on as he pressed his body as humanly close to John's as possible.

John led the way to Sherlock's room, never letting him go. They stumbled against the wall, nearly bumping into the doorframe. He was so thankful that it was so close to the kitchen, otherwise the trek to his room upstairs would have proven to be difficult. Once they got through the doorway, John turned off the light and the night began.


	6. Addicted to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossing that threshold was like opening Pandora's Box.

The only illumination that they had was the dim streetlight filtering through the curtain. Not that they needed it anyway.

Sherlock's normally nimble fingers were shaking as he undid John's belt and threw it to the side. John finished taking off Sherlock's pants and shoved them down his narrow hips. He roughly pushed him on to the bed and finished taking them off, leaving him in his boxers. Sherlock flipped them over and practically ripped John's jeans off. The moment skin met skin, he swore the temperature in the room shot up 90 degrees. Sherlock was everywhere, consuming him.

His skin felt like it was going to burst into flames with his blood coursing through his arteries like he was running a marathon. The only thing that his senses could register was the growing pit of desire that pooled low in his stomach. If he had more sense, he would have berated Sherlock leaving hickeys all over his neck and chest, chalking it up to people talking. At the same time, he was incredibly turned on by Sherlock marking his territory. However, after what happened at the party, he realized that he really didn't give a flying fuck anymore. It almost killed him inside to deny every single time that him and Sherlock weren't an item, because he really did love him. It was just that he cared too much about what society would have though. His stream of thoughts thankfully cut off when Sherlock sucked on a particularly sensitive spot. John held him close, muttering, "Oh God, Sherlock."

He was aware of how deep John's fingernails were digging into his back. Not that he minded. On the contrary, after the whole scandal with The Woman, he realized that he actually got off on a little bit of pain. It gave him that shot of adrenaline. His mouth wandered further and further down John's stomach until his teeth were gently nipping the waistband of John's boxers, ready to take them off. Sure, he was "The Virgin", but this wasn't to say that sex wasn't his area.

John's head shot up to meet Sherlock's gaze, his eyes clouded over with lust.

"Wha—what are you doing?" He was surprised that he could form a coherent sentence at this point.

"Obviously I'm going to take off your boxers, continue with foreplay until you're begging, and then give you a damn good shag," Sherlock drawled.

Leave it to Sherlock to be clear about things like these. Still, it was incredibly arousing. John growled low in his throat and grabbed Sherlock, flipping them over once again. Things were already a competition between them at this point, and John was not going to be outdone. All of London would know that he was the more fantastic lover.

John straddled him, and pinned his wrists above his head, kissing him once more. His tongue thrust deep into Sherlock's mouth, making it perfectly clear what was about to come. Sherlock moaned and didn't even bother fighting to regain control. As long as it was  **this**  John being the aggressive dominant, he would always submit to him. John left his fair share of hickies all over Sherlock's alabaster skin, snarling out, "Mine," after each one. He never made it obvious before how jealous he was when Sherlock had his eyes on other people, even in a joking manner. That was going to change after today based on where they stood. This was a little more painful than Sherlock anticipated, but it was still pleasurable. John resumed snogging Sherlock until he thought he wasn't able to breathe anymore. Sherlock was so overwhelmed by the sheer erotic nature of their snogging; he didn't even realize John ripped off his boxers until he felt his erection bobbing in the air. He pulled back to see John edging away from him at a painfully slow pace towards his hips, never breaking eye contact.

"Now I know that's definitely not a British Army Browning L9A1. I can see you're just happy to see me," John quipped with a lick of his lips. The feral look that he was giving him made Sherlock even harder. John grazed his tip and spread the precum over the rest of his cock, and then gently started stroking, building up speed and pressure. It didn't take long before Sherlock was writhing beneath him, blurting out a mixture of expletives and John's name.

He lost it when he felt John's mouth surround him as well, taking him in deep. Apparently, John neglected to tell him that he didn't have a gag reflex. The combination of sensations was almost too much for him, but he reveled in this new chaos his body was going through. John looked up for a moment and was undone by the state of ecstasy that the detective was in: head thrown back, his entire body arched, and his toes curled. It was nothing short of beautiful. He resumed his activity, alternating between hard and rough, and nice and gentle. Sherlock was on the verge of strangling him for torturing him like this, but he cried out his release and John swallowed it all.

Sherlock weakly swiped his forehead, his dark curls matted with sweat. He thought that he would prove to be the one to give more pleasure, but evidently he was wrong. Normally, he hates being wrong about anything, but not this time. For a couple of minutes, he laid there to let his heart rate come back down to normal while running his hand through John's hair. John pressed lazy kisses to his hips, gently running his fingers up and down his legs.

"John?"

"Mmm?"

"Come here." John eased his way up to Sherlock, curious.

"What fo—, "he was rudely interrupted when Sherlock boldly grabbed his arousal through his boxers, a smirk on his face. His eyes flew open and his forehead knocked against Sherlock's.

"Oh shit, Sherlock," he gasped. Yes, sex wasn't Sherlock's area, but he was decided that it was relevant and did his research. It seemed like it was paying off.

Sherlock slid down the bed to meet John's erection, leaving the army doctor on all fours, shaking. In one fluid motion, he took off John's boxers and tossed him aside, his erection swinging and already dripping. Wasting no time at all, he mimicked John's actions, but started humming some innocuous song to add a new sensation into the mix. John started swearing a lot, which egged Sherlock on to make John beg for more. With a flick of his wrist and his tongue, John was practically fucking Sherlock's mouth. It took a lot of conscious effort on his part to not collapse because this felt so good and he just wanted to melt. He shouted Sherlock's name before his release, moving out of the way before he landed on top of him.

He rolled right back on top of Sherlock, resting his forehead on his, a gentle smile on his face. Sherlock reciprocated, lifting his head lip to give him a nice and languid kiss, a stark contrast to their first kiss. John shifted so that his head fit perfectly in the crook of his flatmate's neck. He pulled the thin cotton sheet over them, the cool fabric helping to soothe their scorching skin. Sherlock wound his arms around John and held him close, pressing a kiss on his forehead. They laid there, absorbing the newness of the dramatic shift in the dynamic in their relationship. It was like the thin red thread of fate had finally made its appearance after all this time being hidden by denial and repressed feelings. The only sounds were the sounds of the city and of their hearts beating, until Sherlock spoke up.

"All this time, that's what we've been missing out on?"

John blinked and looked up at him.

"Let's do it again," Sherlock mumbled as he rolled over on top of John. He wasted no time getting them both randy. It was probably too soon for another go, particularly for with what he had in mind, but them crossing that threshold was like opening Pandora's Box. 

His hands wandered everywhere, eventually making their way down towards John's entrance.

"Do you like it when I touch you like this?" Sherlock murmured, gently massaging the puckered hole.

"Yes," John gasped.

John reached into the nightstand drawer and fumbled for the small bottle of lube that Harry gave to him as a joke and handed it over to Sherlock, who put it on one finger. He slowly eased his way in, pausing at John's hissing. Eventually, John relaxed and Sherlock increased his tempo. He added one finger and then another, giving time for John to adjust and then make it known that this was exactly what he had been aiming at. This became evident the deliciously obscene noises pouring out of John's mouth. When Sherlock bent his fingers towards John's stomach, his hips jolted upwards at the sensation.

"Are you ready?" Sherlock asked. He was terribly hard and was ready to relieve the pressure.

"Oh God, yes. Just fuck me already!" John was practically shouting at this point, a clear indicator of his sexual frustration. If it was any worse, he would have been cross-eyed.

Sherlock chuckled. "Patience, my dear John." He applied lube to his cock and poised his head at John's entrance. "If at any time it hurts too much, just say so."

John huffed. "Doubt it." His eyes almost rolled in the back of his head when Sherlock finally plunged in. He angled both of their hips upwards so that he could hit John's prostate again. It sent electricity throughout his body, coiling at the base of his spine. Sherlock leaned over John to kiss him, but John's hands pulled on his hair, effectively holding him there.

Their hips quickly started working in unison to an almost animalistic manner, recalling the fire that had ignited in the kitchen. The kissing was just as rough and bruising, and so was the need for them to have as much body contact as possible, their limbs tangled together. Sherlock decided that the sound of skin slapping against skin was one that he would commit to memory if he ever needed to wank from then on.

"John, I want you to look at me when you come. I want to see exactly what I can do to you," Sherlock mumbled, his skin glistening with sweat.

John felt the desire coil tighter and tighter. Right as he felt it about to explode, he locked eyes with Sherlock and then felt every cell in his body explode into a million little pieces and then come back together in what could have been described as divine chaos. Sherlock collapsed on him after kicking the sheet off of them.

"Too hot," he grunted.

"You're telling me," John replied.

"Beautiful."

"Huh?"

"You, right at the moment I've ever seen you the most undone."

If it was even possible, John's face heated up more.

"I'm tuckered out, aren't you?"

"Obviously."

"And...he's back."

Sherlock lifted himself off of John to look at him, confused. "What do you mean, 'he's back?'"

John sighed, but smiled. "You're never this open with your emotions or others, or in tune with being more human. I mean, you ARE a human, but most of the time, you're more cold and calculating. Except when you're with me. Then, you're possibly the most human...human being ever. And I love that about you."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, contemplating. "So, you think that I should be more of myself when I'm with you in every day life?"

"Yes, exactly."

He made an agreeing noise, kissing John on the forehead. "I suppose I can do that for the one I love."

"Real- wait. What did you just say?"

"You heard me."

The only response that Sherlock got was John yanking on his hair and pulling him down for a kiss.

"Can you please say it? I need to hear it to make sure I'm not losing my mind," John murmured.

"...I love you," Sherlock whispered back.

John smiled. "Fantastic." He kissed him once more. "I love you too."

It was the best night's sleep that either of them had had in three years.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally published on ff.net back on 1/16/12 and was my first slash smut, so I was unsure of my abilities to write that. But I've gotten better since then.


	7. You've Got the Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Personally, I don't think this really changes things between us. Except that we can shag each other's brains out now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was scrambling for a nice way to end the story, and I ended up with just fluff that made me aslkdjfhsldkfjh when I was writing it.

John felt the sunlight penetrate his eyelids and he waved his hand around to grab the curtain, only to hit it against a bedframe.

It was then that he remembered that he wasn't in his room and he wasn't alone, evident by the heavy but pleasant weight on top of him.

He cracked an eyelid open and was greeted by the sight of a very naked Sherlock sprawled out on top of him, sleeping peacefully. John tried to shift his position, but Sherlock had some sort of sixth sense that honed in on John. He wrapped his arms around John's middle, and burrowed in further into his chest, a content smile on his face. John would have loved to stay in bed with Sherlock if he didn't have the overwhelming urge to use the bathroom. When he moved for a split second, John made the move to untangle himself out of his arms and hop out of bed. His eyes softened when he looked back at Sherlock: his face was very relaxed, making him look more like a child who was in the midst of a very pleasant dream. He padded out of the room quietly, did his business, and climbed back into bed.

Sherlock's fingers wandered until they made contact with John's torso, slithering around and down to wrap around his waist. John had to bite his lower lip to hold back the groan that bubbled in his throat as sparks flew down to his groin. All of this went past Sherlock as he resumed his place nestled against John. This was a new side to him that John wouldn't mind seeing more often.

John absentmindedly traced circles all over Sherlock's back, listening to his quiet breathing. It was a relaxing sound; one that he could get used to easily. He gently massaged Sherlock's scalp, amused as his breathing was replaced with snorts. Sherlock's eyelashes tickled his neck, indicating that he was awake.

"Good morning," John murmured, kissing his forehead.

"Morning to you too," Sherlock replied with a yawn. His hand slipped below the thin blanket cover to meet its target, making John inhale sharply. "In fact, it must be a  **very**  good morning," he said. A twist of his wrist and John was begging for more, moaning Sherlock's name. He released into Sherlock's hand, feeling fully relaxed.

John rolled the detective onto his back, peppering his face and chest with kisses. He took his sweet time bringing Sherlock to his orgasm and back down from Cloud 9. John moved so that he was next to Sherlock, their foreheads almost touching. He was always fascinated with Sherlock's eyes because it seemed like they were never one color, but always changing with his emotions. Right now, they were a brilliant mixture of green and blue that just seemed alive. He almost forgot what he was going to say, but he caught it right as he opened his mouth.

"So…" John started. There was no real other way that he could phrase it.

Sherlock smiled. He knew from the look on his best friend's face what he was trying to articulate. "John, if you're going to launch into a discussion about where our relationship will go from here, we both know where we want it to go. To save you the trouble of worrying about what I want, I'll just say right here that I don't care what you want us to be, but all I know is that I still want to be with you, no matter what. I meant what I said last night."

He blinked and then visibly relaxed. "That makes things a lot smoother."

Sherlock chuckled and kissed his nose. It wasn't something that he did often. Frankly, he wasn't one for affection period, but living with John has made him so much more...alive. He was willing to soften his heart for him. "Personally, I don't think this really changes things between us. Except that we can shag each other's brains out now."

John laughed and hugged him tight. "And this is why I love you."

He grunted, but he smiled and pressed his lips to John's neck. "I'm not sure what love is, but I do know that it's something I could get accustomed to feeling, and especially if it's for you," he mumbled.

"I'm glad," John sighed, pulling Sherlock in closer.

* * *

 

It was true: life went on as normal in 221B Baker Street, except there was a lot less tension and lot more love going around. They both still occasionally had nightmares from those three long years being on opposite sides of the Channel, but they were there to comfort each other. Rarely were they apart, except when Sherlock was too lazy to get the groceries, although he made a conscious effort to for John's sake.

Now whenever they went out to dinner or just out in general, John no longer had to deny that he was Sherlock's date or that they weren't a couple. It was a funny running gag for a while, but he was glad that he could declare that they were together without any reservations.

Both of them couldn't believe that it had taken them this long to stop and really evaluate what everyone has been saying about them and follow their guts. It led them to each other in a way that they never expected nor anticipated, but they embraced it all the same because they took each other for everything


End file.
